


presentiment

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21797065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: There’s a kiss that doesn’t linger nearly long enough, followed by a promise from Felix to flay Sylvain if he doesn’t come home alive (first with magic, then with his swords, before finally allowing Ingrid to also have her turn).Sylvain swings into his saddle and turns, blowing a kiss as he goes, disappearing quickly into the horizon.Sylvain leaves for negotiations in Sreng. Felix worries.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 192





	presentiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BanditoBale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanditoBale/gifts).



> This was for Pd on the Sylvix Discord Server for the Secret Santa exchange! Hope it's what you were looking for Pd! And a very big thank you to Kina ([azuriteaura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azuriteaura)), Sunny ([Sunnybone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone)), and Abacus for helping me beta various parts of this!!   
> Prompts used:
> 
>   * Warm postwar Sylvix!! ((A Dima thrown in would be nice too)) relaxing in one of their respective territories/houses? Nsfw is okay too!!!
>   * Either one of Sylvix having a nightmare and the other going in to comfort in his own way to soothe the pain 🥺... soft angst!!
> 


**_presentiment_ ** _(n.)_ : an intuitive feeling about the future, especially one of foreboding

* * *

The sky crashes with circular purple lightning ringing red fire, furious and unnatural, bleaching the atmosphere with the smell of ozone; the heavens above Fhirdiad rend apart as unmarked pillars fall in a deluge of destruction and death.

It’s chaos, it’s madness, it’s Felix’s every worst fear and nightmare come to life.

“We need to evacuate anyone we can!” Felix yells, shielding his face from the debris of yet another falling turret. A shard ricochets off the ground, striking him in the cheek. He represses a flinch at its sting.

Dimitri nods, side-stepping a piece of rubble as it falls. “I’ll head east with Dedue to cover the markets. Go toward the west gate and protect as many citizens as you can. I pray that we need not face any deaths today.”

There’s a lot that Felix wants to say to that. _Be realistic_ , a strong option, though Felix would be lying if he said he didn’t also desperately wish they could make it through this with zero casualties. _Don’t you start chaining more gravestones around your neck_ , another appealing choice, but they really don’t have the time to get into that again right now. _Lucky you, to have Dedue here with you_ , the bitter thought crawling up his throat as he fights the urge to pull out the ring strung around his neck.

Felix settles on, “I’ll see you outside the city. If you die, I’ll kill you.” 

With that, he turns sharply and slings the Aegis Shield loose from where it rests against his back. He tears off down the city’s steps, away from the plaza, tightening the straps and fixing the shield to his left arm. It will hinder his agility slightly, but it’ll be too late to equip it when he finds the women and children who need protection. ( _He can already feel it slowing him down, his legs wooden; his limbs refuse to obey him, as though locked in paralysis, every movement dragging and slow as though pulled through molasses. He grits his teeth against the effort._ )

His right hand automatically reaches for his sword as he runs. It’s halfway out of its sheath, reflecting the harsh firelight of the carnage around him, ready to beat back the foes that have laid waste to their home. Felix unconsciously bares teeth in a snarl as he readies himself for battle, his body braced to charge into a fray, his eyes darting to catalog his surroundings, and— 

There are no enemies to hunt this time, no one to cut down in retribution for the horrors around him, not a single person in sight to pin the blame on. There are only terrified civilians, and he reluctantly replaces his weapon. 

Only one javelin had struck the city proper, the rest lining southwest into the horizon to annihilate the Tailtean Plains, blocking any retreat toward Arianrhod. It’s a clever strategy—it’s downright brutal, a cruel war tactic that anyone with morals knows not to use—and leaves the populace without a home or shelter.

All Felix can see to the northeast is a haze of heat and dust. There’s nothing to be found that way but ruin and death, the muted booms and clatters of their city crumbling around them mixing with terrified screams. He knows why Dimitri chose to go that way himself; his king is a fool for refusing to “burden” Felix and seeking retribution for his past sins by taking on the more grueling task. 

Ahead of him, the damage is lighter but the people no less scared. He can see maybe fifty paces ahead of him, where before he had been able to see at most twenty. Fhirdiad’s people are hysterical, screaming and crying as they search for safety. But, thankfully, the majority of them are already moving in the direction they need to go. Good.

Felix brandishes the shield arm as a beacon, its eerie orange light drawing the eyes around him. There’s no time to find stable, raised footing ( _but Felix finds himself elevated, standing taller than usual, head and shoulders above the crowd_ ). The screams subside, a little. 

An echo ripples through the crowd. _Duke Fraldarius! He’s come to save us!_

“Evacuate to the west gate! Evacuate Fhirdiad, do not bring anything unnecessary with you, we must leave the city as quickly as possible! Go to the west gate, we will help all the survivors there! Please, everyone, go toward the—”

An acute foreboding seizes Felix. Almost by reflex, Felix grabs the arm of the small, crying child nearest him to drag them both under a doorway ( _when did he fall back to the ground?_ ). He holds the boy’s tear-soaked face to his side as a crumbling facade gives way above them, showering them in dust as it collapses into the ground with an uncomfortable, reverberating thud. Felix coughs against the rising cloud of ashy white and gray powder. The answering screams of the people, running to dodge the debris, are harsh and shrill, a few voices unceremoniously cut off by the wet crunch of heavy limestone meeting flesh. 

Felix winces at the sound, clenching his fist as he bites back a yell of frustration. If he’d been faster, if his legs hadn’t felt leaden, if his magic was strong enough to blast the rock as it had fallen—! Those lives hadn’t needed to have been lost, and no one is to blame but Felix himself. 

The unpleasant tang of freshly-spilt blood joins the mix of devastating, noxious smells hanging in the air. Felix can’t even breathe to fight away the nausea threatening to overtake him.

When the air around them finally settles, Felix heaves a rough sigh. There’s still so much to do to get their people out of this alive.

He crouches.

“Hey, boy, are you all right?”

The child wails, blubbering tears streaming down his face as he cries. “Mommy!! M-Mommy!! I want my mommy!!”

Felix awkwardly pats the kid’s head. “Uh, I know you want your mom, but we have to keep moving. Maybe—maybe we’ll find her at the west gate.”

It’s a lie, and Felix knows it. She’s probably buried somewhere under the ruins, just like all the other civilians he hadn’t been able to save. 

The boy wails harder, burying his face in the arm of Felix’s cloak. He grimaces slightly. He’s never figured out how to deal with children, how to cajole them out of moods, how to make them not be frightened of his stern personality. Dealing with the little cretins has always been more Sylvain’s thing. Unfortunately, Sylvain is home in Gautier, getting ready for border peace talks with Sreng. Or somewhat fortunately, maybe, since it means at least one of them will make it through this ordeal alive.

The child’s wailing reaches a fever pitch. “Mommy! Mommy! Where are you? Mommy!!”

There’s really no time for this. The boy may have lost his mother, but both he and Felix are also going to die if they don’t make their way out of Fhirdiad, and fast. He’ll just have to cry later.

“We need to leave.”

Ignoring the child’s cries of discomfort and shock, Felix hoists him into his arms with a quiet huff, careful to avoid knocking into the boy with his shield. 

The child squirms irritably in his arms. Felix bounces him lightly and makes a soft, shushing noise. That’s supposed to be calming, right? 

The boy answers with a whimper, his sobs quieting slightly. Good enough.

With the child in tow, Felix joins the masses hurrying toward the west gate. They’re mostly ahead of him now, the old and sickly straggling behind; their loud, rasping coughs are just barely audible over the chaos of the streets around them as they stumble. He’ll have to come back and help them once he’s gotten the boy out. Felix has never believed in the goddess, and especially not since the Tragedy of Duscur, but he spares a prayer that those he cannot carry will still be alive when he returns. Hopefully the able-bodied survivors at the west gate aren’t a bunch of self-serving cowards and will listen when he commands them to aid in saving the remaining citizenry. 

Felix pushes onward, just barely avoiding tripping over the pallid corpse of a young woman, her body half-crushed under the remains of a smithy. The building is wrenched open, gutted, bricks scattered like morbid, misshapen petals, their rustic color drowned bold crimson in the girl’s blood. The remains of the forge still smolder, its fire unintentionally extinguished in the building’s collapse.

To his left, the outline of the palace is barely visible through the dust, hovering in the distance, regal and haunting, so many of its turrets decimated. ( _Left? The palace is to the north, it should be on his right._ )

He’s barely made it past the Timotheos Cathedral when the boy twists in his arms, suddenly no longer content to be carried.

“That’s! It’s our church! Mommy always said to hide there if something happened, that the Sisters would take care of us. We have to go, we have to look for Mommy!”

Seiros fucking save him, _he does not have time for this_. “We can’t stop.”

Felix can feel the boy’s chin wobbling against his shoulder. 

“No! I want my mommy! Put me down! Put me down!”

Felix is two seconds from losing it and cursing out a child when he feels a soft tap on his left shoulder. 

“Need a hand?”

He whips his head around, his inability to draw his sword trembling through his body as he turns to an all-too-familiar face.

Sylvain. ( _Where had he come from? He’s supposed to be north, far away and safe. Now he’s one more body that Felix has to worry about adding to today’s tally._ )

“What are you doing here?”

Sylvain quirks an eyebrow. “Aw, come on, Fe. Not going to thank your savior?” 

“You—! You’re supposed to be in Gautier right now, getting ready to go to Sreng. Why are— _why_ are you in the capital?” Felix hisses. The boy in his arms struggles, still determined to run off as he continues screaming for his mother.

Sylvain shrugs guilelessly. “Well, I’m here now. As I said, need a hand?” He nods toward the agitated boy in Felix’s arms.

Felix grunts. “He’s all yours.”

It’s a messy transfer, the child still wriggling as he’s passed, but he calms as Sylvain whispers empty, mollifying platitudes to him. As ever, Sylvain’s quicksilver words work far too well for Felix’s liking. Suave bastard.

“Can you do that while we move? We have to evacuate the city as quickly as possible, and the sooner we get rid of the boy, the sooner we can come back for the old ones who are still stuck.” 

Said boy turns to stick his tongue out at Felix. He rolls his eyes in response.

Sylvain lets out a tired chuckle. “Yeah, let’s go. We can’t stay in this mess.”

Felix leads the way, stepping quickly around the obstacles dropped around them by the damage to the city. His hand wanders once again to the swords at his hip, the itch to wield them still tickling the back of his mind, his excess energy and anxiety vibrating through his being without outlet. Sylvain follows two paces behind, his armor clanking in reassuring, easy tones.

“You going to tell me what you’re doing in Fhirdiad?” Felix asks without looking back. 

Sylvain hums, barely audible over the thud of their footsteps and the now-distant echoes of crumbling structures rumbling to their demise.

“I’m here to help you, isn’t that enough, Fe?”

Felix shoots him a skeptical look over his shoulder. “No.”

“Can’t I just want to be around my best friend, my beloved, my one and only?”

Felix feels himself flush, Sylvain’s obviously-intended result, the ring sitting at the base of his throat burning against his skin. He knows that hidden under Sylvain’s armor is a matching band. He tsks. “Of course you’d slack off.”

Sylvain hums again, apparently letting the dig roll over him. Like always. “Might as well catch up one last time with His Majesty before the trip. Make sure we’re on the same page about Sreng and all that.” He pauses. “Though, I suppose that’s shot now. We’ve gotta focus all our efforts on saving the people of Fhirdiad, haven’t we?”

Their footsteps ring out even against the deadened backdrop of Fhirdiad’s crumbled remains. They turn a corner, weaving to avoid the fading fires left behind in the destruction. The boy in Sylvain’s arms is finally quiet, exhaustion winning out, and he dozes against Sylvain’s shoulder, his drool staining the fur of Sylvain’s coat. 

“Will you still go north?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer.

They press onward, finally nearing the west gate, the smoke and dust around them finally giving way to the sight of the terrified masses huddled together as though crowding together by the gate will grant them safety.

Felix opens his mouth to speak again, to ask his annoying husband for his thoughts, to finally get a proper answer out of Sylvain— 

“I’ll have to. Any misstep with Sreng takes us back months in progress, and the last thing we need is another war on two fronts.”

A chill slips down Felix’s spine. “Will it come to that? Is there going to be another war?” 

“I don’t know—we can’t know just yet. It’s too early to tell, too many bodies to count. We have no way of knowing where those giant pillars came from.” Sylvain sighs. “But this attack on Fhirdiad sure as hell isn’t friendly.”

Felix snorts. “Let them come. I’ll cut them down all the same.”

Sylvain’s tone is wry. “You’re a great swordsman, but somehow I doubt you’ll be able to cut down a giant javelin falling out of the sky. Last I checked, you haven’t learned how to fly and Ingrid’s pegasus still won’t let you ride her.” 

“It’s a work in progress,” Felix argues. “She likes me better nowadays, or maybe one of those wyverns that Claude keeps promising he’ll send will like me more.”

Sylvain laughs, finally honest. The sound warms Felix, even as the sight of the carnage through the city fills him with anxiety and fear. “If that’s what you need to believe, Fe.”

They slow as they approach the chaotic mass of civilians just inside the west gate. Felix shoots Sylvain a look, nodding to the child still asleep in his arms. Sylvain gently jostles the boy, stroking through his hair in soft, careful motions. 

Felix leaves him to it, eyes darting around the square for a good vantage point. They need to organize the people who made it and figure out how many able bodies they can spare to go back and search for other survivors. 

Maybe—

He blinks. He’s floating above the crowd. ( _How did he get up here? Well, whatever, it’s a better vantage point._ )

Felix brings up his left hand and whistles, loud and piercing. A good half of the crowd winces in response.

“We will shortly begin gathering those who are uninjured to help in clearing wreckage! We will need all available hands to look for survivors and salvage any materials and shelter that we can. We do not know if further attacks on the city as intended, and as such, we will be evacuating Fhirdiad for the time being. If you are able to—”

The sky bursts with blinding light. 

There’s nothing but the painful glare of infinite whiteness and the sensation of falling.

The heat is unbearable. Felix can feel the flesh peeling from his bones as the force of the blast propels him into the ground, face-first. There’s so much pressure, too much, _too much_ —!

There's a tugging at his left hand, the grip harsh and desperate, a mockery of the screaming noises pounding through his head. Felix is vaguely aware of Sylvain’s voice calling his name from somewhere above him, pulling at his battered body.

Gingerly, carefully, Felix is turned to face skyward. 

“Felix! Felix, no! Fe—babe, you have to stay with me, stay with me. I can heal you, I can fix this, hang on—hang on!”

Felix barely registers the faint rush of Sylvain’s Faith magic. It’s there, but weak. Neither of them had ever truly trained in it; it was at best a last resort during the war in case Mercedes got overwhelmed. And there hadn’t been need to practice in the years since. 

The magic stops. It might have knit some of his ripped flesh back together—Felix doesn’t know; the agony coursing through his body doesn’t lessen.

“Stay with me, stay with me…” Sylvain pleads. There’s blood streaking the side of his face. He was wounded too. ... _Idiot_. 

Sylvain calls out. “Is there a healer? Please—! Does anyone know Faith?!”

Time expands, Sylvain’s words distorting. Felix can feel the edges of his consciousness slipping. Someone says something, maybe. Maybe it’s him.

There’s another distant, resounding boom, and Felix feels the painful crush of armor being pressed into his raw, savaged wounds.

All he can hear is a loud ringing, all other sound washed out. All he can see is Sylvain’s face, permanently etched in horror and panic, strained and covered in blood, frozen in a grotesque tableau. All he can feel is the shrieking of every muscle and joint in his body, nothing but pain, _pain—_

There’s a small, still-conscious part of his brain that sounds a little too much like Sylvain dryly laughing that this is one way to fulfill a promise.

The last thing Felix remembers is Sylvain’s hand, warm and broken and bloody, loosely held in his own.

* * *

Felix wakes, gasping, as Sylvain shakes him roughly by the shoulder. 

“Felix! Felix! You with me, sweetheart?” 

He heaves, the image of Sylvain’s shattered body leeching blood and viscera onto the streets of Fhirdiad still burned into the back of his eyes. Sylvain’s face above his, whole and wrought with concern, blurs with that of his dream, blood pouring down his face, his red hair infinitely redder as the wound to his head runs freely.

Sylvain slowly gathers Felix in his arms, his warm press of his chest against Felix’s clammy skin a familiar comfort. Felix lets out a shuddering breath. 

“You back in the land of the living now?” Sylvain’s voice is faintly teasing. There’s no way he can know how close that cuts.

Nothing more than a dream. _Just_ a dream. 

They’re alive. Sylvain’s alive.

The hellscape of ruined Fhirdiad flashes through Felix’s mind unbidden; the dead littering the streets, the smoke and dust polluting the air, the city turned to ashes—its people lured out by the first attack only to be brutally executed in the following strikes as they tried to flee. 

_Just a dream_.

Sylvain rubs light, soothing circles against the small of Felix’s back, his worried expression morphed to fear at Felix’s silence.

“Hey. You wanna talk about it?” Sylvain asks quietly.

The nightmares aren’t new. They haven’t been, not since the Tragedy of Duscur and the first time Felix’s world collapsed around him, reduced to nothing but the lies he’d been taught to believe. But they’d been getting better, fewer, less terrifying, in the five years since the end of the war that had led to Fódlan’s unification. 

Until tonight.

There are tears stinging Felix’s eyes. His vision swims, threatening to bring back more images from the dream. He sniffles and shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of Sylvain’s neck. 

He’s being weak. Felix hates being weak. Even now when he’s more willing to accept help. Even now when he recognizes that sometimes he too needs to be taken care of. Even now when accepts that maybe, just _maybe_ , it’s okay to let himself be held and consoled and to not carry the burdens of the world on his shoulders alone. 

“N-not right now. Just—” Felix bites back a sob. “Just—”

A tear spills over, trailing hot and uncomfortable down his cheek. _Damn it_.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m right here. We’re both here.” Sylvain knows him—knows his _fears_ —too well. “You don’t have to tell me right now—or at all—if you don’t want to. We can stay like this for as long as you need.”

If only. It’s a thought that warms Felix, slightly, but they can’t. Sylvain is leaving for Sreng tomorrow, setting off early so that he can arrive by the end at the border by the end of the week. They’re even both still naked and slightly sore from the vigorous good-bye sex that Sylvain had coaxed out of him only a couple hours previous.

Felix inhales sharply, fighting back more tears. “Still making promises you can’t keep.”

Sylvain frowns. He strokes a hand through Felix’s hair, slowing as he reaches the ends and threads a lock through his fingers. “Come here.”

They shuffle slightly. Felix settles with his head against the center of Sylvain’s chest, ear pressed against the slow, steady beat of Sylvain’s heart. Sylvain’s wedding band is cool and reassuring where it tickles against his hair, and he can feel his own squished between their bodies. Sylvain’s left arm wraps protectively around him, holding him in place. The other trails slowly up and down Felix’s back, stopping occasionally to twirl nonsensical patterns against his shoulders.

“We can stay like this all night.”

 _That’s true_ , Felix allows. He can have tonight.

They lie in silence. Eventually, Sylvain’s hand slows and his breathing evens out.

Felix hesitates. He knows it’s wrong to want, to desire something so self-serving in the face of all the work that has fallen on their shoulders to heal their continent, but he’d never asked for this role anyway. Sylvain hadn’t either.

“What if—what if that’s not enough?” 

He says it so quietly he’s not sure whether Sylvain hears. He’s probably asleep again anyways. Sylvain has always been a deep sleeper, bratty and difficult to wake if he hasn’t had his “beauty rest”, though Felix will contest that there’s nothing beautiful about Sylvain’s sleep, that he looks like a troll. Sylvain might deny it, but he drools and snores, and his morning bed head sticks up at impossible angles, putting that of every other person Felix has met to shame. 

Felix sighs, nuzzling against Sylvain as he attempts to settle himself. He should also go back to sleep. He doesn’t expect that he’ll be able to, but there’s nothing left to do but wait until dawn when Sylvain will have to leave.

“Should I send word to delay the talks with the Srengi war council?” 

Felix stiffens, biting his lip. The small, childish part that wishes for exactly that desperately tries to break free and to beg Sylvain to stay. Every passing second makes it harder to deny that selfish urge. 

But. They both have obligations. And he knows that the Sylvain of his dream was right; they can’t afford to take risks in the Sreng negotiations, not when they’re so close to finally reaching a deal that will end the generations of small wars that have plagued Faerghus’s northern border. 

Sylvain gently tilts Felix’s face toward his. Even in the darkness of their unlit bedroom, Sylvain’s gaze is open and adoring, his expression soft and careful. “I’ll do it, if you need me to. Dimitri’s not going to like it, and the council definitely won’t, but they can wait. They’re not in a position to start anything right now, not with the breeding season for their herds so near.”

Felix wants. Sylvain makes it sound so easy, like he hasn’t dedicated countless hours and endless days working towards this moment.

Felix shakes his head again. “It’s fine. It’s stupid. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

Sylvain sighs. “Just—promise me, Fe. If you need something, let me help you.”

“It’s _fine_. Let it go.”

Sylvain brushes back Felix’s bangs and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I love you.”

Felix grunts. “Shut up. I know.” Felix rolls his eyes affectionately. “Go to sleep, you have a long ride ahead of you and you’ll fall out of your saddle if you’re not rested.”

Sylvain cards his hand idly through dark locks.

“And. I love you too, idiot,” Felix whispers.

Sylvain chuckles quietly, letting his hand rest tangled in Felix’s hair. Felix brings his arm up to squeeze lightly around Sylvain’s waist.

It’s not enough, only having Sylvain some of the time. But it’s nice. It’ll do for now.

It takes until long after Sylvain has started snoring for Felix to finally fall back into uneasy, fitful sleep.

* * *

In a flurry of last-minute, oversleep-induced panic, Sylvain is messily outfitted for his ride north. The straps of his saddle are done up quickly and carelessly, his horse cross and restless, as Fraldarius servants rapidly attempt to gather provisions for his ride. Felix, for his part, spends the early morning helping Sylvain dig through their offices to find all the necessary treaty drafts for the trip, the task unsurprisingly left until the absolute last minute. Felix’s frustration at Sylvain’s procrastination is only very slightly mitigated by the fact that every paper is quickly found in its proper place.

It takes far too long to gather Sylvain’s belongings; Sylvain’s antics have exhausted Felix and his staff despite the early hour, the sun barely waking to herald in the start of the day. 

It somehow still doesn’t take long enough; the inevitable good-bye is too soon, the shadows of the previous night’s dream dogging Felix’s every step. 

Sylvain will travel nearly eight days to reach the Srengi war council—located two days into their territory—in the lone city among nomadic territory, a place with an unpronounceable name that Felix has yet to remember. Sylvain will stop in Gautier first in three days time to collect his retinue for the trip, staying only the night before riding again. 

It will be a tiring journey, with the council meeting for an indeterminate number of days. Until they reach an agreement. Should Sylvain run afoul of the warlords, he’ll be trapped within Sreng without a true battalion to aid him, surrounded by potential enemies. 

Watching Sylvain recheck all the preparations for his ride, a wave of nausea washes over Felix as the image of Sylvain’s body, shattered and bloodied among burning wreckage, strikes him. He won’t be able to keep Sylvain safe on this trip, not from so far away. Nor can he give up his duties to follow Sylvain north.

The ache inside Felix’s heart begs for Sylvain to stay. He shoves it back again.

Sylvain pulls him into a tight hug, dripping easy, lie-ridden words of comfort into his ear. Felix tenses at the embrace before willing his body to relax, looping his arms around Sylvain’s neck. 

“These negotiations will be quick and easy. Painless as can be.” Sylvain smirks, too easy, too careless. “After two centuries, we’ll finally have peace.” He ruffles Felix’s bed head, untamed in the pre-dawn scramble. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

There’s a kiss that doesn’t linger nearly long enough—slightly more than a bare press of lips, unfortunately less than the slow, tender slide of tongues that Felix knows they both crave in that moment—followed by a promise from Felix to flay Sylvain if he doesn’t come home alive (first with magic, then with his swords, before finally allowing Ingrid to also have her turn).

Sylvain swings into his saddle and turns, blowing a kiss as he goes, disappearing quickly into the horizon. 

* * *

As expected, time slowly drips by without word.

Anxiety and stress eat away at Felix, day after painful day, hour by crippling hour.

Felix knows that he’s being selfish—childish, even. He knows that he’s lucky to have Sylvain in any sense; Sylvain is ruggedly handsome, charismatic, outgoing, _warm_ —he could desire any person and have their love in return, and he somehow chose his surly, prickly childhood friend.

Felix is especially lucky to have Sylvain even after the grueling Great War of Unification, which is a stupid name but apparently what the historians have decided to call it. “Great” indeed, leaving behind a trail of uncountable dead bodies and ravaging all of Fódlan of its people and resources. Five years of reform have led to slow changes and some healing, but not enough. Never enough. Everything is so slow, so bureaucratic, so unending, so _goddess-damned dull_.

Sylvain’s steady presence is an anchor in the endless, monotonous waves of governmental quibbling, calming the aggravated waters of Felix’s short temper and disinterest in the frivolous wants of men too enamored with the idea of themselves, even as his quippy and needling nature exasperates Felix to no end.

In these times of relative peace and fragile happiness, Sylvain rarely returns to Gautier Castle, more than content to handle complaints of crop blight and sickly livestock from the comfort of Felix’s office, leaving the Fraldarius estate only to tend to matters with Sreng. He had long since carved his way into Felix’s life—into Felix’s heart—and had just as easily taken residence in Felix’s childhood home, making it his own. Making it _theirs_. 

It had taken just two weeks of endless coy innuendo and poorly-timed handsy-ness for Felix to insist that they have _separate_ offices, thank you Sylvain. He had instructed his staff to purchase a new, well-crafted oak desk and matching chair to install in a room at the other end of the hall, far enough away for Felix to have blessed quiet as he painstakingly reviews piles upon piles of proposals both useful and useless.

Not that the existence of a work space dedicated for Sylvain’s use even remotely manages to keep him away from Felix’s.

Most days, Sylvain behaves well enough to start the morning at his own desk. But it only ever takes a few hours before he cheerily lets himself into Felix’s office and makes himself at home on the sofa, sipping Bergamot tea as he lounges with his feet propped on the armrest. 

The first time Felix had accused Sylvain of slacking in favor of bothering him, he’d received only a bemused blink. Apparently the bastard had managed to finish a pile of correspondence in two hours that would have taken Felix all day and then some. It’s to the benefit of the Kingdom that Sylvain no longer feels the need to feign illiteracy in matters of state, but that doesn’t stop Felix’s irritation and feelings of inadequacy at his incredible speed and adroit manner.

Sylvain can always be found intruding on Felix’s work by just past lunch, the one exception the time he chose to instead read a book on chess strategies gifted by Claude and leave Felix to his peace. Felix had noticed, mildly disconcerted by the lack of interruption, uncomfortably waiting for the other shoe to fall. If Felix had pressed Sylvain that night to work off the nervous energy in sex that had shattered an heirloom vase, no one but the two of them would ever have to know.

Sylvain had then proceeded to spend the following afternoon doing nothing but disparaging the book, much to Felix’s chagrin.

In exchange for fondly irritated acceptance of his distractions, Sylvain gladly takes on part of the work of managing Fraldarius territory. Felix had not asked for his help, but he is grateful nonetheless, even as the sterner part of his mind chastises him for being unable to be a good enough duke to handle his work on his own.

Perhaps the greatest benefit of their union is that minor lords seeking an audience with Felix are now also Sylvain’s problem, their snobby stomping and snide criticism no match for Sylvain’s clever mind and sharp wit. Felix has been restricted from cutting back at them himself, in no small part because of the temptation to cut literally. He contents himself with the knowledge that the sting of their idiotic complaining is no match for his husband’s cunning sarcasm.

They’ve developed a happy coexistence (one perhaps where Felix takes more than he gives, even if he wishes he could do more), if not a perfectly harmonious one. 

But even without Sylvain, the stodgy, mundane life of Duke Fraldarius goes on.

It’s busy. 

There are a hundred thousand requests and whims of minor lords all vying for Felix’s attention. A road to Fhirdiad in need of repair. Another drought-ridden season near Galatea. A collapsed dock near Itha. Strategies for logging. Petitions to expand pastures and farming land. 

And of course, the quintessential and unending bane of Felix’s every day: petty boundary squabbles and demands for reduced taxes on noble coffers.

Every oily voice backstabs others in an attempt to curry favor with the “illustrious” duke and the power the name Fraldarius holds, every whiny, tinny tone filled to the brim with hollow praise and barbed compliments, every ingratiating, poisonous whisper dripping with lies. The greed of the nobility shines boldly in cruel, beady eyes, care for the common people not even an empty façade to dress self-serving ambitions. 

After five years as Duke Fraldarius, Felix has mostly learned to tune out the noise; he no longer rises to every baiting remark from those who wish to prove him incapable of being the new Shield, to prove him unworthy as the king’s chosen advisor. Nothing has ever spurred Felix more than spite to rebuke others’ doubts, to kill his own weakness, even as the list of people he’s failed to protect grows longer with every death by food shortage, by bandit raid, by his own pitiful inexperience as a leader.

It’s busy, but at the same time, it’s far too quiet. 

The halls of the Fraldarius manor echo with the silence left behind by the melody of Sylvain’s resonant baritone. Each day is slow and listless without Sylvain’s teasing, ridiculous, flirtatious banter. Without his crass, gadfly comments to any visiting lords who dare to question their competence. Without his firm, reassuring comfort in the dark, muddy hues of Felix’s angrier, more desperate moments.

Felix finds himself in the training hall, sword singing through the air, at all hours of the day and night, brutally battling with ghosts who aren’t dead and demons that have never walked the living world. If the training regimen he has insisted on maintaining since the war is strict, then Felix’s forms in Sylvain’s absence are nothing short of wild and backbreaking. He spurs himself to utter exhaustion, night after night, furiously determined to hack away the red, sanguine tinge filtering into the corners of his dreams.

His sleep is not haunted by Fhirdiad drenched in smoke and carnage, but even the furthest depths of his subconscious cannot beat back the misshapen shadows and bloody impressions that swim through his mind as he wakes to cold sweat and colder, empty sheets. 

Every night, Felix lets awareness melt away in the aching tenderness he wrings into mind, his muscles, his bones, his heart. Every morning, Felix rises from the murky graveyard of his nightly suspension of being, lets himself be pulled from the trance of fears that he cannot keep from dogging his every step.

He’s beyond tired, his quick fuse burned to nothing in the constant unease of waiting, waiting, constantly, eternally _waiting_ —

Days drop by, falling like autumn leaves turned detritus, no news to be found.

* * *

Ingrid just stands in front of his desk, her hands on her hips.

Felix doesn’t want to acknowledge her judgment. 

He’s fine. He’s getting his work done without Sylvain. He’s even managing some governance of Gautier in Sylvain’s absence. He does his daily training. He eats. 

He has some difficulty sleeping, but that’s not new.

He’s _fine_.

He’s twenty-fucking-eight years old, he doesn’t need Ingrid to be his nanny. Hell, he’s never needed her to be his nanny, whatever she may think, and he sure as shit doesn’t need it now.

She’s just visiting to formalize some trade agreements on behalf of her brother. Anders could have come himself to sign the agreements for Fraldarius sending harvest surplus, but _apparently_ Ingrid needed to give up her knightly duties for a week to just play messenger and have tea.

Ingrid sighs, her notoriously limited patience paling in the face of Felix’s stubbornness. “Felix, I can _see_ that you’re not taking care of yourself. I was here only a month ago and you look like haven’t gotten any sleep in that time.”

Felix ignores her, choosing instead to reread the same sentence in his granary report. Again. For possibly the sixth time. His migraine is making it hard to count.

Ingrid snatches the page away, the paper ripping violently in a trail against his quill. Felix shoots her an irritated look. He was supposed to sign something in that. Probably. 

For a moment, Ingrid looks old and worn down, exactly how Felix feels, especially without Sylvain around, but she quickly centers herself and draws a deep breath. “How about this? If I can beat you in a sparring match, you’ll agree to sleep at least seven hours a night.”

Felix scowls. “If you win, I won’t work any more today. Take it or leave it.”

“Six hours a night, Felix. Please.”

“No.”

“If you wear yourself down any further, there won’t be anything left for Sylvain to come home to.”

“I’m _fine_ , Ingrid. Stick your nose in someone else’s business.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Fine. But I’m going to talk to Rosamund in the kitchens to see if she can’t make you take better care of yourself when Sylvain and I aren’t here.” She nods to the door. “Let’s go.”

Felix’s winces slightly as he stands, pain lancing through his temples. He schools his expression to hide it, but Ingrid knows him too well. He glares, daring her to comment.

She sighs again, leading the way to the manor’s training hall. Felix follows, the bright sunlit corridor agonizing to his eyes as he tenses against the harsh, unyielding glare.

It’s not any better when Ingrid grabs an iron lance, handing Felix an iron sword. He blinks against the glint of light reflecting off the blade. His hands still know how to wield a sword, but his movements are sluggish, imprecise. He’ll have to train more.

Ingrid trounces him soundly, her lance at his throat in a humiliatingly short amount of time.

He keeps his promise to stop working. Sleep, on the other hand, eludes him, even as exhaustion wears down on every nerve and bone in his body.

* * *

The maid (Dana? …Diana?) who fetches him is distraught. Her eyes fall quickly to the ground as he fixes her with a stern look. The servants know not to disturb Felix’s training unless absolutely necessary. 

“M-master Fraldarius, a man arrived who would—who would like to see you. Urgently.” She shuffles in place, her words stammered and floundering. “He said he was ordered to come straight to you.”

Felix growls. He sheathes his sword, gesturing for the girl to leave. He knows how to navigate his own damn home. She bows out, scampering away. Sylvain’s always said that Felix needs better tact in dealing with his staff, but Felix doesn’t take recommendations for how to interact with people from a man whose default mode is “outrageous flirting”, even in the presence of his husband, even _within their shared home_.

The path from the training hall to the foyer is not long, yet it seems to wind forever, twisting and turning incomprehensibly, losing Felix in the depths of his irritation and anger as though denying him passage to his destination. ( _It is a straight path. It does not turn at all._ )

An age and a day, or perhaps no time at all, passes before Felix arrives, storming into the entrance hall to spitefully castigate whichever lowly, sniveling noble thought himself important enough to disturb Felix without prior notice.

He stops short.

There is a single man in the hall, his eyes bloodshot and gaze shaky, precariously holding a large, wrapped bundle.

Sylvain’s armor clatters noisily over the floor, bloody and battered without its wearer, messily dropped by the lone, tired Gautier soldier. The man is streaked with dirt and swaying on his feet, his weariness a mirror for Felix’s own. The shattered Lance of Ruin falls to his feet, hastily wrapped in a cloak to protect the poor cavalier from touching it directly, its bone-like appendages wiggling even as it lays in jagged, gray pieces.

Felix’s knees go weak. He thinks he hears someone distantly call out a garbled phrase that sounds like, “Duke Fraldarius!”

There’s a wretched heaving noise echoing in his ears. 

A ring falls out of the armor, rolling unsteadily to stop in front of Felix, its engraving of a promise mocking him as he shudders out an earth-shattering sob.

* * *

This time when Felix jumps awake, there’s no one to comfort him. He curls around Sylvain’s pillow, desperately trying to breathe in his fading scent. His heart races, beating as though to escape the confines of his chest, and his eyes blink back agonized tears.

It’s only been three and a half weeks. It’s already been three and a half weeks. 

Maybe it’s a selfish thought, one that jeopardizes future stability of northern Fódlan, but Felix can’t help but think that he shouldn’t have let Sylvain go to Sreng after all. 

* * *

It’s a week to Ingrid’s departure and three days to the nightmare of Sylvain never coming home when a note arrives with a forceful invitation to Fhirdiad. It’s Ingrid’s fault. It’s so obvious that Felix can smell it in the stench of guilt that hangs around the messenger boy. She never did learn to stop sticking her nose into others' business.

Dimitri’s letter is not discourteous, even as he charges Felix to travel to the capital, post-haste. He claims “urgent business” that requires Felix’s presence, but the wording is so vague that Felix knows it’s just a cover to compel him to Fhirdiad, where he can be babysat more easily. 

Felix is fucking _peachy_ , he is taking care of himself _just fucking fine_ , and Ingrid and Dimitri should fuck off. 

Still, Felix packs a bag and saddles his horse, riding southwest. It saves him the evitable follow-up visit from Ingrid and the disappointed, boring, hypocritical lecture from Dimitri that will undoubtedly arrive if he chooses not to go.

He’ll honestly likely still have to face said hypocritical lecture from Dimitri, who has not known sleep in the fifteen years since the Tragedy and has no right to lecture Felix in anything regarding self-care. But it’ll be easier to brush off the king if he goes along with his whims now rather than later. 

He doesn’t bother to send the messenger back ahead. Dimitri can receive him as he is if it matters so much that he be there immediately. Fuck fanfare.

The ride to Fhirdiad is as bland and short as he remembers. He travels two days with only his horse and a single squire for company, the picturesque tree-lined road painted red and orange in the colors of the Wyvern Moon, their hues far too reminiscent of the gaping emptiness to his left.

Felix’s arrival at the gates of Fhirdiad goes unannounced, few heads turning at his unassuming entrance. That’s just as well; the less ceremony there is, the faster he can get this over with and the faster he can go home to wait for Sylvain’s return.

The consternation and confusion on Dimitri’s face as he storms his way into the palace’s reception hall is worth the bustle of the Blaiddyd servants jumping to attention to attend Felix unnecessarily. Felix has never remotely cared about decorum, and he’s not about to start now when summoned against his will. 

From the perturbed whispers emanating from the gathering of jostled, elderly advisors lurking in the corners, he’s interrupted a meeting about importing from southern Fódlan to cover food shortages in the coming winter. Considering the news so far of this year’s harvest, their presence is unneeded. Fraldarius has already agreed to cover Galatea, and none of the other territories faced drought this year.

Felix marches to where Dimitri sits, still-seated in his shock.

“Why am I here?” Felix asks, arms crossed. “You claimed ‘urgent business’ but if your advisors have time to fret about a winter that isn’t going to be bad for the people, there’s clearly no true need of me.”

Dimitri nods. “Truly, I did not call you here for business, though I suspect you are already aware of that. But, since you are already here, my friend, why not stay a few days? We have not seen each other in a while, and though there are no matters that require your immediate attention, having your ear is always appreciated. I ask that you reconsider your refusal to be the kingdom’s advisor.”

“I’m not going to do that.” Felix scoffs. “And I don’t know what Ingrid’s told you, but there is no need for you all to try to coddle me. I don’t need to be coaxed or ordered to Fhirdiad so you all can keep a better eye on me.”

“Are you sure?” Dimitri’s eye looks him up and down. “It seems to me that you are exhausted beyond belief and in need of a good rest. As it is, you’re barely able to stay on your feet.” He’s wrong. Felix is perfectly steady. And the bags beneath Dimitri’s own eye bely his own lack of sleep.

Dimitri gestures toward the north wing and Felix’s room. “You should rest yourself before supper. I’m sure you’re tired from your journey, among other things. One of the maids can help you get settled in your room.”

Felix growls. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Despite what you and Ingrid might think.”

“I did not say that you aren’t, only that I hope you’ll stay as my guest.” Dimitri glances away, dismissing Felix. “If it’s quite all right, I have business to complete here. I believe Annette is free from her duties at the sorcery school today, and I’ll have a messenger call her.”

“ _Fine_.” Felix sighs, rubbing his temples as he steps aside.

Coming to Fhirdiad was a mistake. Hopefully Dimitri and Ingrid and whoever else gets caught up in this attempt to oversee him like he’s a child will accept soon that Felix does not need their help.

* * *

Two swift knocks followed by a familiar, melodious rhythm break into Felix’s reverie as he lays on the covered bed, his mind cycling through the twisted images and bloody imprints that have haunted his nights. He hasn’t heard that pattern in a long time, but it’s one that’s always been welcome. 

Felix pushes his way off the mattress, briskly moving to invite Annette in.

She beams up at him, doe-like and radiant, soft as the first buds of spring, her smile honest and soothing. Felix had missed how her simple company is a balm to the weariness of his soul.

Annette grabs him into a tight hug, her arms encircling his middle enthusiastically in a happy squeeze. He lets himself relax into the embrace, his chin resting against the crown of her head, her gentle, citrusy scent flooding his nose. 

After a long moment, Annette pulls back, reaching up to pat him on the head.

“It’s been too long, Felix! You don’t visit enough, and when you’re in Fhirdiad, it’s always, ‘Oh I can’t right now, Annette, I’m too busy.’” Her gruff imitation of his voice is as silly as ever, and a small chuckle bubbles its way out of Felix.

She’s right. It has been entirely too long.

“It’s not entirely my fault. Every time I stop by the school and ask for you, you shoo me away like I’m some dirty, stray cat.” 

Annette taps her chin, eyes twinkling. “That’s not a bad comparison.” She thinks for a moment before clapping her hands together excitedly. “But since you’re actually free for once, I thought we could have tea! I made sure to get your favorite from the kitchens. Apparently they have a whole stock of fresh Almyran Pine Needles waiting for your visits since you’re so persnickety.”

Annette grabs the tray by her foot before pushing her way into Felix’s room.

She arranges the tea set on the table by the window, carefully pouring two cups before placing one in front of an empty seat, clearly expecting Felix to follow her cue and talk. 

He sits, bringing the cup to his lips and inhaling the tea’s sharp, earthy flavor. It’s not quite steeped to perfection, but Annette’s attempt is good nonetheless. 

She eyes him over the top of her own teacup. “So, tell me, Felix. What’s this about you not taking care of yourself?”

The denial rises readily to his lips, but the honest, concerned expression etched into her small face stops him. Felix tsks.

“It’s nothing. Ingrid and Dimitri are overreacting.” 

Annette snorts lightly. “Don’t try to lie to me, Felix Hugo.”

Felix rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not Ingrid or Dimitri. I can wait out your stubbornness, and you can’t talk in circles around me,” Annette continues. “You might as well just be honest.”

Felix winces. She’s not wrong. “I—I will admit that I’ve had some difficulty sleeping recently,” he acquiesces.

“How recently?”

“Since—goddess, this is embarrassing. Since Sylvain left for the trip to Sreng.” Felix’s hands shake slightly around his tea. 

He sighs, steadying himself to recount the visions that have haunted him day and night. “The night before he left, I… I had a dream. A really bad one, worse than anything since the war.”

Annette guides Felix’s cup back to the table before wrapping his hands in hers. “What happened?”

“He d—no. Everyone died. The city— _this city_ —everything was in ruins, some kind of massive pillar falling from the sky, obliterating everything. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and then he was and… and then there was another attack and we died. He died.” Felix lets out a hoarse, gutted laugh. “Funny way to fulfill our promise, right?” 

A tear slips down Felix’s cheek as he shudders, inhaling sharply. 

“I don’t—I don’t know what happened to anyone else, really. Dimitri was there, at the beginning, I think? There was just a lot of destruction. Everything—all of it, gone. Just, nothing but death and blood. Goddess, so much blood.” Felix bites back a trembling sob. “And then, after that dream, Sylvain left the next morning. I wanted him to stay, but I couldn’t ask him to do that.”

“Oh, Felix.” Annette scoots her chair closer, wrapping her arms around him again to pull him toward her. For someone so small, she’s always so soft and warm; her sweet personality a brilliant sun that he greedily soaks up, the prickly bramble of his personality fed, watered, and fruit-bearing under her kindness. “He’s fine. Sylvain’s _fine_. It was just a dream, I promise.”

Felix lets out a hollow laugh. “I know. Goddess, I _know_ , but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s going to go wrong. His family’s been at war with Sreng for centuries. What if he never comes home? Peace isn’t that easy. What if it’s a trap? It has to be a trap. There was another one—another dream. His armor came home, but not him. Just like Glenn. Seiros, he went just like Glenn.” 

Felix pauses, tears dripping down his face. A few have found their way into the tablecloth. “Sylvain’s been working on this for years, but I just can’t shake the feeling. This _has_ to be a trap. It’s been too easy. It’s _never_ this easy. Nothing’s ever this easy, not for any of us.”

Annette carefully strokes his hair. “Sometimes it is. Sylvain’s put his everything into this treaty for years, it’s not like he’s going into Sreng blind. They’ll reach an agreement in no time, with no problem. It’s okay to let yourself accept the good things, Felix.”

“This isn’t a good thing! This is Sylvain leaving, for who knows how long? I know he’s been planning for this for a while but… Who knows if he’ll come back?”

Annette pinches Felix’s cheek. He glares. “He’s only been gone for, what, four weeks? A month? He’ll be back before you know it.” She draws back slightly, her face morphing into its “teacher” mode. “But you need to get yourself together first. Do you think Sylvain wants to come home to you wallowing like a kicked puppy? You’ll just make him feel bad, when he’s spent a long time working so hard for this peace.”

“I’m not—I am _not_ trying to make him feel bad. He’s doing the right thing for the future, it’s just… such a big risk. I know that it’s the right thing, I just don’t know if it’s the right _time_.” 

Felix’s words sound petulant, even to his own ears. The potential agreement with Sreng isn’t new, isn’t even remotely recent; Sylvain has been preparing for this trip for almost half his life, from before the war and before they were even students, all those eons ago at Garreg Mach. Making this move toward long-term peace was always going to be a little dangerous. It’s a compromise necessarily founded on give and take, after centuries of steal and pillage. There was never going to be a perfect, risk-free time.

His thoughts must show on his face, because Annette represses a laugh. Felix scoffs, bringing up a sleeve to wipe at his cheeks and nose. 

“Most of me knows Sylvain will be fine, that he’s capable. That… he’s strong and doesn’t need me there to protect him. I just—”

“You miss him anyway. And you’re worried.” Annette presses a napkin into his hand, wrinkling her nose at his dirtied shirt. “It’s okay to feel that, you know? But you don’t have to let it stop you from taking care of yourself. It worries all of us, and there’s no way Sylvain wants you to stress yourself to literal sickness.”

There’s a protest that dies in his throat, the tiredness in his bones winning out. Felix huffs. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”

Annette giggles. “You know it, Felix. I mean, what are friends for if not to tell you when you’re being silly?”

* * *

That night, Felix sleeps and does not dream. No shadows whisper fear and death to him, no blood-dyed colors stain the lids of his eyes, no ghosts linger to threaten and frighten him.

He wakes, emerging from underwater for the first time since Sylvain’s departure.

He challenges Ingrid to a rematch of their spar from the previous week, winning in a close margin when she fails to catch a feint and trips over his leg. He offers Dimitri a round as well, barely losing out to brute strength. 

Dedue casually proposes a hand-to-hand brawl. Felix gladly accepts.

Annette entices him to the school of sorcery with promises of new songs, introducing him to her students and suggesting slyly that he show off his prowess with a Levin Sword. It’s wasteful and pointless, but he owes her for the tea. The brats are easily entertained, cheering gleefully with every spark that flies off the lightning bolt-shaped blade.

He stays for three days—three days away from the burden of being Duke Fraldarius, three days where he only occasionally thinks about Sylvain and Sreng, three days more than he had initially intended.

It’s with a lighter heart and a quiet laugh that he leaves. Fhirdiad, Felix supposes, hadn’t been that much of a mistake.

* * *

Sylvain is there—gentle smile brilliant and indulgent—when Felix arrives at the Fraldarius estate, daring to look as though he’d never been gone in the first place. As though the month and change of his absence hadn’t aged Felix a dozen years. As though somehow Felix was the one who had gone on a dangerous mission with the potential prospect of injury or death.

His beard is wild and unruly, roguish and rakish, evidently neglected during the entire course of his trip north. Sylvain’s hair, too, has grown out, the ends floppy and shaggy; he looks more like a ridiculous puppy than ever as it bounces, his whole being perking up animatedly at the sight of Felix making his way into the entrance hall.

Sylvain holds his arms open, broad and welcoming, his joy infectious and his affection blinding. Against his better judgment, Felix falls into the embrace, letting an attendant shuffle away with his coat and belongings, clutching desperately at the front of Sylvain’s shirt, warm and worn and smelling exactly like home. 

The uncountable tension riddling his nerves finally— _finally_ , after far too long, so long that the manor is piece by piece starting to forget Sylvain—drains away and Felix relaxes, burying his face into the itchy crook of Sylvain’s neck.

He’s home. Sylvain’s _home_. 

No injuries, no deaths, just Sylvain, as brilliant and devoted and loving as ever.

Felix, too, is finally home, carefully wrapped in Sylvain’s hug.

“We did it. We did it, Fe.” Sylvain presses fervent kisses against Felix’s temple. His beard scratches against Felix’s skin, skating far too close to his eyes for comfort. He’ll remind Sylvain to shave later.

“They agreed?” Felix voice trembles slightly, disbelief tainting his words.

“Y-yeah. It’s still a work in progress, but the chieftains of their clans signed on to a tentative trade agreement. Their ores and furs for grain imports from South Fódlan. They’re not happy about not getting their land back from Gautier, but they’ve promised to stop the aggression towards civilians near the border so long as the trade routes and exchange prices are agreeable in their favor.”

Felix sighs, burying his face in the soft lining of Sylvain’s collar. “No more war.”

“No more war.” Sylvain agrees, pressing another kiss to Felix’s ear, stubbly bristles scratching against cartilage. “No more war, after two hundred and thirty-two years.”

Felix sighs, closing his eyes as he rests in the comforting circle of Sylvain’s arms. He thought he had rid himself of tiredness in Fhirdiad, but nothing could match the soothing contentment of being swaddled by the easy, endless ways that Sylvain showed his love. Sylvain rocks back and forth in miniscule measure, his stance soft and careful, as though cradling a newborn; Sylvain’s voice leaks out a lyrical, nonsensical melody that is wholly unlike those Annette comes up with, a monstrosity all his own; Sylvain’s heart beats resonantly, its notes clear and constant, its steady thumping reverberating through his entire being, singing “I am here, I am alive.”

“I’m glad you’re home,” Felix mumbles. Sylvain’s answering chuckle ruffles his hair slightly. 

“It’s good to be home,” Sylvain says. “Are you okay? I… I know I had to leave in a bit of a rush, so we never got to talk, but if you need anything, I’m here now.”

Felix shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely. Annette talked to me while I was in Fhirdiad.”

Sylvain laughs. “Good ol’ Annette, Fódlan’s own Felix-whisperer.”

Felix ignores the dig. He is _not_ a wild beast, and if anyone’s truly tamed him, it’s Sylvain. It certainly wasn’t Annette who Felix stupidly pined over the last month, like a kicked dog whose owner was away. Sylvain doesn’t need to hear it anyway; Felix can do without inflating his ego.

There are better uses of his time. And as wonderful as being enveloped in an adoring embrace is, there are better uses of Sylvain’s body.

A small voice in Felix’s mind reminds him that they’re far from alone, standing in the entrance hall where anyone in the manor can pass through. He ignores it.

Felix tilts his head, lips skating along Sylvain’s jaw, pausing quickly to peck at the corner of the other man’s mouth. “Mmm, you took so _long_ to come back.” 

He leans back slightly, his glaze flickering down to rest on Sylvain’s mouth. He could kiss Sylvain, truly give in and devour Sylvain and fill his bone-deep hunger with everything Sylvain has to offer—but he won’t give in to the temptation of Sylvain’s body that easily. It’s undeniably more fun to pay Sylvain back for his endlessly and outrageously inappropriate comments about Felix’s ass, Felix’s mouth, Felix’s cock.

Sylvain grins at the shift in mood. Ravenous, horny bastard. 

Felix waits, letting their breaths mingle as his eyes rove across his husband’s rugged face. How long has it been since he looked—really _looked_ and cataloged and drank in—all of Sylvain’s breathtakingly handsome features? There are more crow lines than he remembers, a few stray gray hairs at his temples and in his beard, and shadows beneath his eyes that Felix is certain hadn’t been there before this trip.

Sylvain looks older, certainly not wiser, and still devastatingly attractive.

It’s not fair, it’s never fair, what Sylvain’s smile does to Felix’s heart, especially when directed at him full-force.

He can feel Sylvain’s impatience in the left hand slowly creeping down his backside. The touch is light, gossamer, ghosting along his back and making a clear bee-line for Felix’s ass. Whatever Sylvain may think, he’s not fooling anyone.

Felix smirks. He can work with this. If Sylvain is this eager, Felix easily has the upper hand. He always does; Sylvain’s libido is absolutely unrestrainable and unquenchable. 

Felix simply hasn’t had the energy in this past month to think about sex, but he can’t deny that he’s missed the intimacy, at least a little.

And, well, Sylvain can take a little teasing.

Felix grabs the wrist of Sylvain’s roving hand. “Looking for something?”

Sylvain winks. “You know it, babe.”

Typical. A small part of Felix wants to let Sylvain have his way, maybe immediately lock themselves in their bedroom or an office or even a secluded corner for the rest of the day, letting themselves cave to their baser instincts, propriety and his staff be damned. It’s unfortunately not anything most of them haven’t seen or heard before anyway. 

But no. Patience is a virtue, and one that Felix has Sylvain beat at in every way. 

Felix honestly hadn’t even considered sex until a couple minutes ago, but he’ll be damned if he lets Sylvain’s dick do all the thinking for both of them.

Felix tsks, loosening his grip to slide his hand into Sylvain’s, lacing their fingers together lightly, leaving them to hang together, innocently interlocked at his side. Sylvain’s fingers twitch, clearly torn between tightening the hold and shaking free to seek purchase elsewhere on Felix’s body. 

“Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? I haven’t even gotten a proper hello.”

Sylvain lets out a chuckle. “Hi, welcome home, Felix, please let me touch you.”

Felix rolls his eyes, leaning infinitesimally closer. “Was that supposed to impress me? Can’t imagine you’ve ever wooed anyone with lines like those.” 

Sylvain chuckles. “I can think of one person who’s fallen for them.”

“Hmm? And who might that be?”

Sylvain ghosts his lips against Felix’s. “I wonder.”

Felix feels the corners of his lips tilt up. “Must be someone with truly awful taste.”

Sylvain snorts. “Must be.”

Sylvain’s hand makes a bid for freedom, surreptitiously sliding away from Felix’s in an attempt to grope back toward its initial destination. It’s quickly recaptured, Sylvain’s fingertips just barely beginning to dig in before the hand is wrenched away, captive once more in Felix’s grip.

“So insatiable,” Felix purrs. “Can’t you behave yourself?”

Felix just barely rolls his body forward, letting his hip brush against the obvious tent in the front of Sylvain’s pants. Sylvain moans quietly at the contact.

“Were you good while you were away? Did you think about me while you were in Sreng?”

Felix lets his lips brush against Sylvain’s, tilting back as Sylvain chases.

“I bet you thought about me every day, thought about me touching you. I bet you thought about me sucking you off, even in those meeting in front of all those old, crusty council bastards. I bet you wished I was there with you, threatening to put them in their place.” 

Felix lets his eyes meet Sylvain’s, watching as his husband pants slightly, pupils blown wide. There’s a pretty flush creeping up the side of his neck, Sylvain’s patience very obviously close to snapping. 

“You think I’m hot when I’m angry. It’s why you’re always provoking me. It’s okay, I know. I’ll be hot for you.” 

An aggravated noise of assent rises from Sylvain’s throat, the arm around Felix’s waist pulling at him, attempting to draw him in so Sylvain can rut brazenly against him.

“Be patient,” Felix tuts, disappointment lacing his voice. “Or would you rather I left you here? I’ve been away from Fraldarius for a week; there are plenty of other things I can do with my time if you’re not going to be good.”

Sylvain let out a quiet, frustrated groan, his arm dropping back to its place around Felix’s waist, his other hand pulling free of Felix’s grip to rest alongside the other. “You’re killing me here, Fe.” 

Felix smiles, coy. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leans up. Sylvain shudders when Felix’s breath tickles his ear. A warm curl of pride and delight blossoms in Felix’s chest, mirth pulling the corners of his lips higher. “I think you’re pretty hot when you’re angry, too.”

Sylvain growls, his fingers digging painfully into Felix’s hips, their bruising strength spiking the arousal in Felix’s veins. He’s not going to be able to keep the teasing for much longer, his half-hard length sapping more blood from his brain with every passing second.

Felix lets himself drop back onto the balls of his feet, an arm snaking Sylvain’s shoulders, his face tilting to kiss along the other side of Sylvain’s neck.

He pauses, pulling back and recentering himself, letting the weight of the last month wash over him, drenching his voice in emotion.

“Goddess, I missed you, Syl. I missed you. Every day.”

His lips flutter against Sylvain’s with every syllable.

Sylvain moans, leaning down, intent on capturing Felix is a proper kiss. 

In an act of colossal strength, Felix pulls back, letting his weight fall against the arms still draped around his waist, his left hand rising to cover Sylvain’s mouth, the last vestiges of Felix’s self-control just barely hanging on.

Felix raises an eyebrow, an unspoken taunt hovering in the air between them.

Sylvain takes a sharp, stuttering inhale. 

Then he licks Felix’s palm.

Felix splutters, pulling his hand back to wipe down Sylvain’s shirt with a mild noise of disgust. The tension in the air bursts, diffused by the ridiculousness of Sylvain’s antics.

Sylvain laughs, full-bellied, before bringing their entwined hands to his lips and pressing light kisses against the pads of each of Felix’s fingers. He gently adjusts the grip to press a final kiss to Felix’s palm before bringing it to cup his cheek, leaning into the touch.

Sylvain’s eyes glitter with affection, their tone oaken like a well-aged brandy. An affronted sound escapes Felix’s throat, his pulse quickening, color rising in his cheeks. 

“Yeah, I missed you, too, Fe.”

Felix’s heart stammers, the raw emotion of Sylvain’s voice drawing him back in, melting away his desire to play their game. Goddess, Sylvain’s a sap, and he makes Felix sappy too.

He leans up, slowly, breath hitching slightly as he takes in the honest tilt of Sylvain’s smile, breath suspended between them. Sylvain meets him halfway, lips slotting together easily, the familiar dance of their lips against one another spreading warmth through Felix’s core. 

The kiss quickly turns heated, gentle tenderness fading away to frenzied passion, Felix threading one hand through the unruly locks at the base of Sylvain’s neck as the other brushes through Sylvain’s beard, nails digging in to scratch lightly against hidden skin. Sylvain, finally freed from Felix’s teasing, quickly drags his hands south, finally, _finally_ digging into the firm, muscular roundness of Felix’s ass.

Felix hums contentedly against Sylvain’s mouth, drawing out a low groan and the self-assured probing of a tongue swiping against his lower lip. He deepens the kiss, letting himself crash full-bodied into Sylvain, relishing the spike of pleasure as Sylvain’s hardened cock rolls against his. 

Sylvain moans, guttural and wrecked, before pulling out of the kiss to tilt Felix’s forehead against his, pausing to breathe heavily. 

“Goddess, Felix, I missed you _so much_. Every night, I thought about how much I couldn’t wait to come home to you,” Sylvain says, bending to press a trail of kisses along Felix’s jaw, hands moving to unbutton Felix’s shirt. “I jerked myself off, thinking about you, almost every night. But it was never enough.” He groans again. “Goddess, it was never fucking enough. I wanted to touch you _so bad_.”

 _Truly, truly insatiable_ , Felix’s mind supplies.

Sylvain runs his hands across the hard planes of Felix’s newly-exposed abs, his thumbs teasing upward to lightly rub against Felix’s nipples. Twin jolts shiver through Felix’s torso, and he bites his lip to keep from whining. Felix’s hands find their way to quickly loosen the pants still restraining Sylvain’s cock, desperate to get his hands on his prize.

Felix has barely fumbled them open when Sylvain pulls his hands back, leaning in to rub his still-covered crotch against Felix. 

“Mmm, I want you.” Sylvain breath is hot against Felix’s ear, and he barely has time to process the words before the warmth is gone.

Sylvain’s lips are back on Felix’s, hot and insistent. He bears down on Felix, breath heavy and agitated, pressing into him and walking them slowly backwards. It’s only a few steps until Felix feels his back hit a wall. 

There’s a part of Felix that wants to jump on Sylvain, letting his husband press him into the surface behind them, aligning their faces for a better angle as they slowly grind against one another. Felix has one leg wrapped around Sylvain when the other man pulls back, shaking his head slightly. 

“I want to taste you.”

Felix inhales sharply as Sylvain drops to his knees, hands skating along the tops of his boots before rolling then down slowly, first the left, then the right. Sylvain carefully pulls them away from Felix’s feet, kissing up the inside of each leg as he does so. 

His hands dance around the laces of Felix pants before dropping to playfully squeeze around Felix’s right thigh. Felix lets out a low growl of frustration with every time Sylvain almost frees him. The smarmy prick has the audacity to chuckle to himself, enjoying Felix’s suffering.

Finally, after lavishing excessive attention to Felix’s still-clothed legs, Sylvain’s hands skate inward, inching slowly toward the seam of his pants. In a moment of mercy, Sylvain presses affectionate kisses into the outline of Felix’s cock as it strains against its confines before pulling back to grin mischievously up at Felix. Sylvain’s hands are slow, _methodical_ as he unlaces Felix’s pants, and he mumbles words of praise into the dark hair peeking out from above Felix’s smallclothes as he kisses against it.

Sylvain mouths down Felix’s abdomen, pushing down the pants, carelessly shoving them to mid-thigh, letting his mouth trail to one side as he pointedly ignores Felix’s achingly hard cock. Bastard. Though, Felix can’t blame him, not after the torment he put Sylvain through earlier. If he looks down, he can still see where Sylvain is rock-hard in his own smallclothes.

After entirely too much focus on every bit of exposed skin and not enough where he needs it, Felix pushes Sylvain back by the shoulder, stripping himself of his pants. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, standing against the side wall of the entrance hall in nothing but an open shirt and his smallclothes. He’ll kill Sylvain for it later. 

Sylvain makes a noise of appreciation, attacking every bit of newly-exposed skin, continuing his quest to ignore Felix’s cock. 

Felix is about three seconds away from kicking him to get on with it.

Felix huffs, pulling Sylvain head roughly away from where he’s busy lavishing kisses against Felix’s right ankle, shoving down his smallclothes and kicking them away. 

“Hurry up,” Felix growls.

Sylvain smirks. “Now who’s impatient?” 

Felix brings his right foot up to trail a feather-light touch against the bulge peeking through the open seam of Sylvain’s pants. Sylvain gasps, falling forward slightly to brace himself against the wall, a pleasured shudder echoing up his spine.

Felix barks out a laugh. “I’d still say it’s you.”

“That’s unfair.”

“If you want me to play fair, you know what to do.”

Sylvain whines, slightly. “You’re always so mean to me.”

“You like it.”

Sylvain leans in, at long last pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the base of Felix’s cock. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain whispers. “You’re right, I do.”

He returns to his ministrations, his hands rubbing carelessly against Felix’s thighs, occasionally ghost higher to lightly scratch against the v-shape of his pelvis, all the while pressing nonsensical kisses against Felix’s length. 

Sylvain’s hands travel higher, trailing up Felix’s abdomen to roll his nipples as he licks a careful stripe from base to tip, his tongue savoring the pre-cum that is slowly weeping down the sides. Felix moans, loud and unbidden as Sylvain sucks against his head, his hips taut with the desire to buck up into the wet heat of Sylvain’s mouth. 

Sylvain’s hands fall downward, coming to rest once more on Felix’s backside, squeezing into his ass as he pulls Felix’s hips closer to his face. 

There’s an impish glint in Sylvain’s eyes. 

“Wanna fuck my mouth?” 

Felix’s heart skips a beat and his brain shutters to a full halt, struggling to process what Sylvain has just offered him. He lets out a quiet whimper, sinking slightly into the wall as he tries to reconcile the shock of arousal coursing through his body. He isn’t completely sure he heard right, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take it. 

“Fuck, Syl, _fuck_ , yes, yes—!”

Sylvain’s smile turns downright devilish. His right hand trails lower, teasing against Felix’s balls as he leans in, keeping his eyes on Felix’s. 

Felix mewls as Sylvain swallows him down, the assault of _hot_ and _wet_ and _pleasure_ blending together into an overwhelming cadence. He’s not quite close yet, but if Sylvain lets him use his mouth like wants, he will be very soon. He wants to move, but he holds himself back, letting himself enjoy the tightness of Sylvain’s throat around the head of his cock, the vibrations of Sylvain’s choked breaths sending minute thrills down his length and rippling through his body.

The hand still on Felix’s ass drifts inward, circling faintly around his entrance. He isn’t prepared at all, and while he’s sure Sylvain has oil in a pocket somewhere, Felix is loathe to take the time to find it when he could be fucking Sylvain’s mouth instead. Sylvain’s hands play a game of distraction as they toy with him—Felix is very rapidly losing the ability to do anything but chase that edge of bliss that Sylvain is so readily offering him. 

Felix can’t think, every nerve alive as he tries to retain control over his body.

Sylvain pushes himself down as far as he can go, moaning messily around Felix’s cock, Sylvain’s hands shifting to push Felix’s hips into his face as far as they can go. Felix gasps as the sound trembles through his body and relents, slowly letting himself thrust against Sylvain’s mouth. 

Sylvain hums enthusiastically around his length, and Felix allows himself to speed up, tension and lust building as he rolls his hips. Felix grunts, the feeling of every movement so _good_ and _right_.

“Ha—ha—You’re so good, Syl, taking my cock. Look so good like this,” Felix babbles. Usually, Sylvain is the one for pointless praise during sex, but he wants to tell Sylvain just how amazing he’s being, how perfect he looks with Felix’s cock crammed down his throat.

He’s vaguely aware that one of Sylvain’s hands has dropped away, finding its way to push down his own smallclothes and get a hand around himself. 

Felix’s hands find their way into Sylvain’s hair, pulling against the locks as his hips circle, his length disappearing down Sylvain’s throat, over and over. He’s never been so glad for Sylvain’s hair to be too long and unruly; it makes a perfect hold as he hurtles toward the edge, chasing his pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck—! I’m close. I’m so close—!”

Sylvain makes a quiet noise around Felix’s cock, the hand on Felix’s hips pressing him in. Felix thrusts, once, twice, three times more before stopping as he comes down Sylvain’s throat, his orgasm washing over him in harsh, ragged waves, his voice a shredded mess as he moans, the sound reverberating loudly off the hall around them.

Felix comes back to himself, sense by sense, first sound, then sight, then the others rushing back, all at once. 

It takes a long moment before he recognizes that he’s leaning over Sylvain, his softening dick still dragging against Sylvain’s lips as he pants heavily, fisting over himself in rapid, desperate movements.

Felix bonelessly collapses to his knees, head settling against Sylvain’s neck as he presses sloppy, wet kisses against his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth. Felix tastes himself, grimacing slightly at the bitterness, swallowing down the low, broken moan that Sylvain stutters out, Felix’s tongue sweeping against his.

Felix brings a hand down to wrap around Sylvain’s cock, moving in time with Sylvain’s own. 

“Come for me, Sylvain.” Felix’s voice is tired, breathless, as he murmurs into Sylvain’s ear. 

The tension in Sylvain’s body snaps all at once as he comes with a harsh breath, moaning Felix’s name in a rough, wrecked voice. 

They slump into each other, Sylvain’s cum leaking over their hands and onto the floor. 

After a slow, quiet moment that stretches an eternity, Sylvain drags himself to his feet, pulling Felix up with him. 

“Let’s go take a bath, yeah? Then maybe another round.”

“The bath sounds nice,” Felix agrees. “And…” He blushes slightly, looking away from the embarrassing pile of his clothes and the few drops of cum dirtying the floor. “The other thing—more sex doesn’t sad so bad either.” 

Felix feels more than sees Sylvain’s grin. “We’ve got a lot of time to catch up on.”

“Yeah. Welcome home, Sylvain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Something something first attempt at writing smut?
> 
> Come hang out with me on Twitter [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas)! You can retweet this fic [here](https://twitter.com/euphemeas/status/1206006264821616650).


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